


Have a Jolly, Jolly Joly

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: CHRISTMAS FLUFF!!!, M/M, happy things!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 22:29:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9037511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: This is a Secret Santa gift for @clenster! I hope you like it and that you have an absolutely wonderful day tomorrow, whether you celebrate Christmas or not! <3 <3





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clenster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clenster/gifts).



> The first part is in canon-era and the second part is modern au, in case that's not clear. I wanted to do a sort of ~let's transport them to the present where they can all be themselves and be happy~ sort of thing :D I had way too much fun writing this, even though it's just a short little thing lol

The back room of the Musain was full of the smell of spiced cider and of the damp felt of the greatcoats collected over the chair in front of the fire.

“Give me that,” said Joly.

Bossuet looked down his nose in mock-surprise, unable to a laugh from escaping him as Joly jumped for the candied lemon that Bossuet held high above his reach.

“Absolutely not,” said Bossuet. The tiny doctor whimpered.

“You’ll break your teeth! Or you’ll uproot your molars when you take a bite and all that caramelized sugar sticks between them and then you make to open your jaw. You’ll _break_ your jaw! You’ll have to go about with a sling tied ‘round your head like a muzzled dog. You won’t be able to speak! And _then_ you’ll—”

“And then we’ll all rejoice in no longer having to tolerate his puns,” Grantaire muttered from the table where he sat, unhelpful. He plucked a kernel of popcorn off the string that Jehan was threading and tossed it aimlessly into the branches of the little fir tree in the corner.

Jehan squawked. “Oi!”

“Ah, come now, R,” said Bossuet. He took another bite of the lemon and added, mouth full, “Don’t be so sour.”

Grantaire couldn’t help but snort into his mug of cider.

“Yes, now, you’re mussing up our lovely tree. It deserve better treatment.” Courfeyrac frowned, plucking the stray kernel from its branches and giving it an affectionate pat.

“It _is_ lovely, isn’t it?” said Feuilly from the other table, where he was trying, unsuccessfully, to untangle lengths of tinsel. “It recalls to me the years spent at my grandmother’s house as a wee one. On Christmas Eve, we’d go down to St. Gertrude’s to hear mass, and there was always this big old pine tree out front and we’d bring out our candles to put under it afterwards, and we’d go caroling all ‘round the str—”

“We ought to go caroling!” cried Marius.

“Yes!” said Courfeyrac.

“No,” said Enjolras and Grantaire together. They exchanged a look. Grantaire inclined his mug toward Enjolras in a half-toast.

Courfeyrac pouted.

“And why not?”

“I’m frightened to get any more festive. I may sprout antlers and a little white tail,” Grantaire said, gruffly, taking another sip of his cider.

“You may regardless,” said Enjolras.

“What?”

“Well, I’d think that as such an avid cultist of Dionysis, your satyr-like qualities might do well to be expressed physically.”

Grantaire’s mouth fell open, and out came a startled cackle—which turned into a guffaw, which turned into a series of helpless giggles. He laughed until he had to put his head down in his arms on the table, dizzy, with Bossuet clapping his back and Joly finally getting ahold of the lemon.

No one saw, but Enjolras’ lips twitched.

\--

There’s a rowdy group of college students walking down the street. Someone’s phone is blasting _Have a Holly Jolly Christmas_ , but Burl Ives’ tinny little voice is hidden under much bigger ones: Courfeyrac trying to sing harmony; Marius succeeding at singing harmony; Cosette and Eponine wailing along in high-pitched false accents (Scandinavian? Canadian? it’s anyone’s guess); Feuilly, Combeferre, and Jehan all doing their true best; and Bossuet, Bahorel, and Grantaire skipping around Joly in a tumultuous circle, singing something like, “Have a jolly, jolly Joly! He’s the best Joly of the year!” while the man in question squeals and hides his face.

He only looks up, giggling, as his bouncing companions sing, “—if there’ll be Joly, but have a cup of J—”

“Cheer!” Joly squeaks, and shoots out a mitten-ed hand to grab Grantaire’s thermos. He takes a swig, wrinkles his nose, and hands it back. They all laugh.

Bahorel gets them back on track with a booming, “ _Have_ a jolly, jolly Joly! And when you walk down the street—”

A group of girls in leggings and furry boots duck out of their way on the sidewalk, giggling and staring at them all, this group of colorful queers and punks and misfits—Jehan in their gothy corset and pink tulle skirt, gawky Courfeyrac with his red lipstick and tacky sweater, Bossuet with his droopy hipster mustache and incongruously bald head. As the girls scurry away, Eponine stands up on her tiptoes and points at them like it’s their turn to lay it down, shout-singing, “—friends you know, and every _one you meet!_ ”

The strangers nearly fall over themselves in bewilderment, still laughing—they don’t seem to know how else to position their faces. The Amis keep going, singing, skipping. It’s a good night. They will happily frighten everyone they meet with their joy.

Watching Eponine point out the group of uncomfortable girls, though, has made something else clear to Grantaire. There is a lonely shadow in the back of their group, strolling along behind them, flicking a cigarette ashes to the sidewalk. Enjolras. He seems to be too focused on the stars up above to notice that Grantaire is staring back at him.

R falls out of the group, misses a couple of steps, locks in to Enjolras’ left side.

“No singing for you?”

Enjolras blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“Seems like a pointless way to antagonize the police,” he says. “We should be invisible when we’re not supporting a specific cause. Makes it more impactful when we get out there.”

Grantaire snorts.

“That’s some bullshit,” he says.

“Not surprised you think so.”

“Yeah, well. I mean, first of all, fuck the police and fuck respectability politics. We shouldn’t have to—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“—yeah, well, _second of all_ , I don’t mean it’s bullshit in the usual way. I mean, that’s not why you’re so quiet.”

Enjolras’ eyes are a blue that no human eye should be. Like the color of a fucking Kellogg’s cereal box. There is nothing in this world that Grantaire wants more than to kiss him. Just once. If he could kiss Enjolras, he’d give up letting himself daydream about being interviewed for Juxtapoz. He’d call his parents. He’d never, ever listen to that new Ramshackle Glory album when it came out.

But instead, Grantaire just looks at Enjolras and says, “C’mon, dude. What’s up?”

Enjolras looks down at the sidewalk and takes a long pull off his cigarette. And—oh God—when his eyelids flutter shut for a moment—like the sensation of smoke going into his lungs is too pleasureful and too painful all at once—when his shoulders curl up ever-so-slightly, the denim of his jacket tugging over his biceps—when his fingers—when his fingers, somehow big and delicate all at once—his fingers—fuck, Grantaire could write an epic poem about that one moment.

“I dunno,” Enjolras says. “Just anxious, I guess.”

“Oh,” says Grantaire.

He could say, “Yeah, me too,” or he could offer him a sip of the whiskey in his thermos, or he could just tell him to feel better and skip back up to the Harass Joly Squad. But what he does instead is reach out a hand and take Enjolras’.

He doesn’t know why he does it. In fact, he’s not even really aware that he’s doing it until it’s done. It’s like the stupid Christmas music and the whiskey and the late hour just happened to suddenly kill all the neurons in his brain responsible for _not touching Enjolras_.

Enjolras’ face doesn’t acknowledge a thing, but his [beautiful, beautiful] fingers, ever-so-slowly, curl around Grantaire’s.

“—soooomebody waits for you! Kiss ‘er once for me! _IF-YOU-HAVE-CONSENT!_ Have a jolly, jolly Joly, and in case you didn’t hear…”


End file.
